Rippler (16 page)
Authors: Cindy
“Where’s Sam?” asked Gwyn, interrupting my reverie.
I turned back towards my friends, pasted on a smile and began to move back towards the kitchen island. At which point I realized I was no longer solid; gliding invisibly felt entirely different from walking on the ground.
Crap. I can’t even stay solid at my own house for five minutes.
How would I manage a day at Bella Fria creek? Will shot Mickie a meaning-filled
glance. They knew what I’d done. I needed to go somewhere so that I could ripple back solid without Gwyn seeing it. I ghosted through the sliding glass door—delicious—and passed out of sight around the side of the house. After rematerializing, I flicked the waterfall switch—an excuse for having stepped out—then ran back to the sliding glass door and let myself in.
“Where’d you go?” Gwyn asked.
“I wanted to see if Dad got the waterfall fixed,” I said.
“Focus, Sam, focus,” said Gwyn. “Biology? What do you think of this for our final topic: Designer Babies: How Far is Too Far?”
“Uh, great,” I said, splashing some cool water on my face. I returned to the kitchen island and rifled through the print-outs Gwyn had brought with her. One of them caught my eye and I skimmed through it.
It was disturbing.
“Sam?” asked Will. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
I turned to Gwyn. “Did you read this one?”
“Girlfriend, I haven’t read anything. Ma’s been on my butt all week about the damned cat fundraiser.”
“What’s it say?” asked Will.
“It says that there was a state that sterilized tens of thousands of people
involuntarily
in the twentieth century. Any guesses which one?” I asked.
“Duh, Sam, Nazi Germany,” said Gwyn.
“
California
,” I said. “If you suffered from chronic depression, or had Autism, or if you were a lesbian, you could be locked up and sterilized
without
your consent as being unfit to reproduce.”
“That’s true,” said Mickie.
“That’s awful!” said Gwyn.
“Also true,” said Mickie. “California was the perfect state for the idea of Eugenics to take hold. Farmers were making incredible discoveries in the twentieth century—breeding and cross-breeding that revolutionized crop yields. That same reasoning led the state of California to conclude it was justified in allowing the incarceration and involuntary sterilization of over thirty-thousand people.”
I scanned through the rest of the article. “This says that during the Nuremberg Trials, Nazi officials who practiced their version of Eugenics cited the origin of the practice in the United States of America as a justification for what they had done.”
“Wow, Sam, do you know how to pick a research topic or what?” asked Gwyn.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. The article on Eugenics was troubling, but it wasn’t immediate. I had other things to worry about. Like my inability to control my body.
Like the fact that there was no way I could do the panning event and guarantee I’d stay solid.
And how there was no way I could explain to Gwyn
why
I couldn’t do the event.
***
Rain splattered against my window, the first storm of the season, and I pulled on sweats and a hoodie. Following the storm east towards the Sierra, I biked to Gwyn’s, wallet bulging with my guilt offering. After parking my bike in front of the café, I walked around back and rang the buzzer.
Gwyn thumped down the stairs and opened the door. “Hey, Sam. Geez, you’re soaked. I haven’t had a minute to shower with this damn cat-a-thon. I should just step outside, huh?”
She held her hand out in the rain for a moment, then withdrew it, climbing the stairs ahead of me. “There’s a zillion details, and of course Ma can’t do any of it that involves computers.
How’s your pledge sheet looking?”
I hesitated. My mouth felt stuck shut like I’d filled it with crazy-glue. I took a deep breath. “I can’t do it.”
“Huh?”
“Gold panning.”
“What? Sam, what do you mean you can’t do it? Did something else come up?”
I crossed to look out the window down over the cat houses. I didn’t want to lie to her.
“No,” I said at last. “I just . . . can’t.”
“Are you grounded? No, of course not. You wouldn’t be here. You’re not sick are you?
Omigod. Of course. I’m an idiot. It’s your thing with cats, isn’t it? You hate cats, only you’re afraid to tell me.”
“I don’t hate cats.”
“Hello. Do me the courtesy of being honest. You told me the story about your Mom’s
accident.”
What had I told her? I didn’t think I’d said I didn’t like cats. “I didn’t mean to imply I don’t like them. Cats are fine.”
“So what is it then?” She was puzzled and a little irritated.
I should have said it was cats.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I said. “I just came here to tell you in person that I won’t be there. And to give you a pledge.” I pulled out my wallet, grabbing at the wad inside.
“It’s enough for twenty dollars an hour.”
Gwyn walked over, looked at the money, then at me. “You don’t have to do this, Sam. I’d rather you’d just be honest. I’m okay if you don’t like cats.”
“It’s not the damn cats!”
We stared at each other.
“Okay, whatever,” she said coolly. “I need to grab a shower. It’s going to be a long day.”
She turned to go.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I stood there, not wanting to leave.
“Uh-huh,” she grunted, as she walked away. “Close the door tight when you leave.”
Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, approx. 1943
Experiment 31, Control Group B
I tell Matron to replace the children’s down comforters with woolen blankets, one for
every two children. The matron murmurs she will clean the eiderdowns. I tell her the children
must develop strength and endurance to serve their Fatherland, their Führer.
The children turn to bed that night as the ground freezes hard outside.
“Give me that bedspread!” shouts Helga, who has just discovered her blanket is gone.
“It’s mine,” says Elfie. She is small for her age. “It was put on my bed.”
“Fight me for it,” says Helga.
“No,” replies Elfie. She knows Helga is a fierce opponent.
But the choice to avoid fighting is not available. Elfie will fight or she will give up the
blanket. Helga grins, white teeth gleaming in the dark, cold night.
-translation by G. Pfeffer
Chapter Thirteen
COVER UP
I stared at my bike, in front of Las ABC. I didn’t want to bike; I needed to run. What had I done to my friendship with Gwyn?
The weather had shifted again, from stormy to sultry. The hoodie had been a mistake, but not my biggest one today. My bike could wait; I needed to run.
I took off into the sticky morning, my feet carrying me up into the hills, along the 7K
trail. Up through oak branches, leaves drooping with rain, up the patches slick with new mud.
On and on until the ache eased in my chest, until the confrontation with Gwyn looked like something we could both move past.
This was why I ran. Because it was the only way I had to move through the pain of being alive to a space where it became bearable, seemed possible.
I ran on and on until my feet brought me back to Las ABC, and then I hopped on my bike without looking to find out if Gwyn or Bridget could see me.
At home, I was into my swimsuit in minutes. The pool glimmered invitingly, but in spite of the morning rain-shower, the water was right below bath-temperature. I felt restless in the pool, and soon I took off down the path to my lookout where I knew I could count on a breeze to pass over my wet, warm skin. On the way, I saw Sylvia, picking late raspberries and corn.
She smiled and held out a handful of my favorite fruit. The raspberries were large, firm, and sweet with a hint of acid-tang that made them my favorite. I gleaned a few she'd missed, popping them in my mouth, too.
"First two weeks of school behind you, huh?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," I replied, pausing a moment beside her.
"So how are things going?"
"Classes are fine.” I wanted to tell her more, but I didn't know how to explain my thing with Gwyn.
"School's a lot more than classes, huh? That's what I remember from the olden days.” She passed me a couple more berries, and I sat beside her.
"That hasn't changed," I agreed.
"Things okay with you and your friends?” She was good at catching small shifts in my mood.
“Fine,” I said. The half-truth pulled color to my face. “Well, sort of fine.”
She waited, patient beside me, rustling through the vines for scarlet fruit.
"I don't know what I should do. I made Gwyn really mad at me, and I didn't mean to, and I can't figure out how to fix it.” My eyes swilled with stinging tears.
"I thought maybe something was wrong, baby. So you’re worried you won't be able to patch it up?"
I nodded, tears spilling onto my cheeks, salty as they trailed down past my lips. She passed me a paper-towel from the roll she was using to pad between layers of raspberries.
"You know you can tell me anything, right baby?"
No, I can’t
, I thought.
"What is it honey? Tell me.”
“I can’t,” I said, my throat contracting as several more tears escaped.
Her eyes narrowed and she gazed out over the ravine, following birds that dove and
swooped as if to celebrate the earlier rain. “Okay, then. So what do you think you should do, honey?"
"I need to apologi—ize," I said, my breath catching in a hiccup as I forced myself to stop crying.
"You are a very smart young woman. 'I'm sorry' goes a long way. You’ll find a time when you can tell her, all by yourself. It’s your first falling-out, right?"
I nodded.
“Ah, Sammy.” Sylvia reached over and gathered me into a tender embrace, rubbing my
shoulders and back. “We only argue with the people we really care about. You girls are going to figure this out just fine.” I let her hold me, feeling grateful and comforted.
“Is friendship always . . . this hard?” I asked in a whisper.
Sylvia laughed softly. “Only the friendships that are truly worthwhile.”
I dabbed at my face, clearing away the salty tear-tracks left behind by the heat and breeze. I felt a little better.
Hunkering down beside one of the garden beds, I looked for stray weeds hiding among the raspberry canes. It was a small way I could show gratitude to my step-mom. Something up the path to the house caught my eye: Mickie.
Sylvia noticed her and called up a greeting. “Hi, Mackenzie! You finally made it!”
“It’s been long enough, huh?” Mickie grinned that huge white smile I knew so well from seeing it on her brother’s face. “This is wonderful,” she said, pointing to the vista down the ravine.
Sylvia beamed.
“Hey Sam.” Mickie smiled at me.
“Hey.”
“I’m here to check out Sylvia’s famous berries.”
Sylvia straightened up, her knees and back popping. “Right. Let’s go over to the far bed.
Those are the boysen—well, the syllaberries,” she said, making an effort to call them by their proper name. Dad had named them for her.
I remained quietly foraging for stray fruit as Sylvia and Mickie talked about the
challenges of growing valley-bred syllaberries at our higher and colder climate.
When they said their goodbyes, Mickie turned to me. “We’re taking off to Fresno early tomorrow for some shoe shopping. Las Abs is sold out of everything in a size eleven. Will thought you might have his hoodie? It’s getting colder driving in the morning with the top off the Jeep.”
“Uh, yeah, I’ve got it in my bedroom. So you guys are missing the cat fundraiser, too?” I asked, surprised.
“Crap.” She frowned. “Guess we’ll have to, ‘cause no way am I letting Will wear out his new running shoes around school another week, and nothing else fits.”
I understood. Good shoes for cross-country were a big expense, and they wore out fast enough without using them for everyday.
As we climbed up the railroad-tie stairs, I glanced over and recognized an expression on her face. I’d seen that look when Will concentrated.
“Will and I want to ask you something,” she said. “Will says you know the French
teacher pretty well? Old family friends?”
“She and my mom: they were friends.”
“I have this book from my former advisor, Dr. Pfeffer. He thought it was important
enough to send it to me right before he was murdered. I want to know what the book’s about, but it’s in some language I can’t figure out.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I wondered if you might be willing to take a couple of sentences and ask the French teacher if she recognizes the language. I mean, Will could ask her—”
“Better to keep Will one additional step removed from the book and Dr. Pfeffer.”
“Well, yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” She dropped her eyes, embarrassed.
“That’s smart.”
She looked up, gave me a sad smile, then pulled the book from her bag, and handed it to me. “It might not be anything. Anyway, the sentences translated into English are some pretty weird stuff. But Pfeffer thought it was important enough to send to my keeping.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out.”
We paused at the sliding glass door.
“Thanks, Sam,” she said. “I’ve worried about keeping Will safe so long, I don’t know the reasonable fears from the far-fetched ones any more. When we were kids I had to keep what he could do hidden from Dad—not a good secret to share with an addict. Then I started worrying the CIA would haul Will off or he’d end up a lab-rat somewhere. And now with Pfeffer and the Helmann’s carriers being killed . . .”
